Jeeves and the Misconstrued Love Light
by Cohava
Summary: Once again, Bertie has been asked to help Love's young dream by doing a favour to a friend. But what happens when s. friend has set her greedy sights on Jeeves himself?
1. Chapter 1

Jeeves and the Misconstrued Love Light

Chapter 1

Author Notes: A big thank you to beatrice_otter who fixed my punctuation issues, and to elliemorris, to whom credit is due for the title, a couple of the more corking lines, and endless buckets of support and encouragement; without her, I would never have found the courage to post : )

It is no secret to my regular readers that girls usually tend to get Wooster, B. in trouble. In this, at least, this tale is no different from the others, for I can safely say that the events were ignited by a girl, this time one Olivia Smythe-Garland, who happened to come along during a family vacation to Cannes as a friend of my cousin Angela. Said O. S-G. did not look especially menacing, at first; she was fairly different from the girl who had come with us the year before, one of those soppy, doe-eyed blighters who sigh wistfully at the moon and write poetry full of weeping willows and fluffy bunnies.

No, this Livvie was a genuinely good egg who, despite having easily ten times my intelligence, didn't seem to feel the urge to mould Bertram. But most of all, what endeared her to me was her admiration of Jeeves: quite unlike several other ladies whom I shall not name, she thought me most wise to keep such a marvel in my employment, and often included him in our conversations, much to my delight.

Now, during the better part of the vacation she had, quite sensibly, refrained from setting her sights on yours truly; therefore you can imagine my dismay, dear reader, when, during one of our friendly moonlit strolls she said:

"Bertie dear, I must confess I am in love"

"Err… indeed, old thing?"

"Yes! You can't possibly imagine how I feel—can't you, even now, hear my heart beating like a crazy stallion?"

I assured her I didn't, and I stuttered something about being flattered and all that but, when she interrupted me with the most delightful sound for a man in my position: she laughed soundly.

"Oh Bertie, you fathead! You can't possibly think I mean you!"

I puffed my chest, slightly hurt—I mean to say, what? Surely fancying me couldn't be too absurd; after all, many a Bassett and Glossop have often gathered round with the love light in their eyes, hounding in on this Wooster like a wolf at mealtime—and replied. "Well, my dear, you sort of gave me that impression; but let's not talk about it. Tell me then, who's the lucky chap?" And here she came and stomped over my newly born relief like a Spode crushing a communist's cranium.

"Well, it's Jeeves."

"What! Surely you don't mean Jeeves!"

"But I do."

"My Jeeves?"

"Yes! Have you ever noticed, Bertie, the noble shape of his head? How it bulges so proudly at the back?"

Well, the nerve of it! Of course I noticed! Some small part of the Wooster mind cried righteously; but it drowned in the vast majority of the brain intent to absorb the shock of Livvie's announcement. Surely such a thing couldn't be possible: she was a lady, after all, and Jeeves was…

… The best man I knew. Certainly much better than tons of Sirs and Lords and whatnot, what with his marvellous intellect and the way he shimmered silently and seemingly appeared out of nowhere just when I needed him; not to mention his strong sense of property and general paragon-ness. Many a time had this Wooster wondered why he remained by my side instead of biffing off to be Prime Minister. Indeed, were I a lady instead of a virile gentleman, I admitted grudgingly to myself, I would most assuredly set my sights on Jeeves too, for no one couldn't possibly do better than him.

"… So will you do it for me, Bertie?"

"...Eh?"

She sighed, annoyed "Do try to focus, Bertie! I said, could you please mention the matter to Jeeves for me?"

"I… you want me to… what? Of course I won't! Of all the bally nerve! Not only do you try to steal Jeeves from me, you want me to help you do it!"

"Now, don't be selfish. Do you honestly expect a man like Jeeves to spend the better part of his life taking care of a wastrel like you? Just think about everything he could do if he had the means, instead of wasting away in your service!"

I deflated. My shoulders sagged miserably, the Wooster pride stung vividly in its most sensible spot. I couldn't deny her point—Livvie's family was the oofy sort, and I could just see Jeeves as the munificent philanthropy, helping out artists and writers and whatnot (not that he didn't do that already, only with his admirable intellect) and most probably running for Parliament and bettering England with a flicker of the old eyebrow. Really, who was I to stand in his way?

"All right," I grumbled "But I don't see why you can't tell him yourself."

"Well, I would, but he's such a traditional bird, he might think I'm too forward if I propose to him—it 's not the done thing, after all. So, Bertie, will you speak to him?"

"I..."

"Please! If not for me, do it for Jeeves."

Well, what was there to do? I reluctantly agreed, and gave her my word I would speak with Jeeves.

I have to tell you, the whole matter stung not a little; the heart was heavy, so to speak, and the brow wrinkled in deep sorrow. To be frank, most of the time there's nothing that rouses the Wooster spirit like the chance to do a friend a good turn, but it pains me to see that, more often than not, the g.t. in question seems to demand some rather sticky sacrifices yours truly. That is, when the course of True Love does not run smooth, it always comes down to 'Be a dear and pretend to be a female romance novelist, Bertie' or 'Would you wear this stolen policeman's uniform, Bertie, old chum?' Bally annoying is what it is. However, I felt than in this situation, the sacrifice required was much greater: to part from Jeeves, no less! A Jeevesless life—a prospect too horrid I could scarcely bear to think about it. I mean to say, this Wooster has gone to great lengths to help many young lovers, and I suppose that, with some effort, I could learn to get along without Jeeves' help, if that was absolutely necessary. I mean to say, I could probably wrangle my way out of most matrimonial entanglements; I have been known to think up the odd scheme or two, when the occasion required. Also, to be honest, I don't really need Jeeves's help to realise that, when the enraged aunt marches forth, ravenous for a spot of Wooster blood, it's time for a quick dash to New York. No, the true tragedy would simply be that Jeeves-shaped empty space in my flat. Not seeing him when I first open the peepers in the morning, not having him around to gently slide a rose in my buttonhole, or to adjust my tie, or light me a cigarette? Unthinkable! Some people might say that I would still have some sort of valet on hand to do it all, but Tchah! Say I. I'm firmly convinced, to this day, that no one could even open a door quite the same way Jeeves does, and inferior specimens need not apply.

In short, it pained me, but a Wooster is a man of his word.

It's a rummy thing, how time passes quickly when one has to do something he truly doesn't want to. Before I knew it I was in my room, readying myself for bed while Jeeves shimmered around my room willing everything in its proper place, having (Jeeves, that is) a marked distrust of hotel staff in re. Bertram's personal possession. As I watched him float effortlessly here and there and possibly folding socks with the power of his mind, I felt a stab of pain at the thought that I was probably soon to lose the tender care of this paragon of paragons, but a Wooster stands by his word. Having previously fortified myself with a couple of stiff ones at the bar I cleared my throat and addressed him.

"Jeeves, old thing, do you ever thing about love?" The effect of my words was immediate: he stood straight and fixed me with the sort of intense gaze that says his fish-fed brain is calling forth all of his considerable resources.

"Sir?"

"Well, you know, love," I repeated, slightly unnerved by his tense stance "The old ticker beating like a rabid stallion and all that. I, that is to say, err… Dash it, it's bally difficult to get it out, you know, and not a little embarrassing but… I mean to say, you are loved, Jeeves. Passionately, in fact. Why, you probably know it all already, being the marvel that you are, you must have noticed the tender sighs and amorous glances cast in your direction, even if Bertram was unaware at the time, and you undoubtedly knew when a seemingly innocent compliment to your intelligence hid within a sweetest sentiment, as it were..."

Here I trailed off for a mo., taking in Jeeves's expression. Though he was attempting his usually unreadable valet facade, I could see that his eyes were a fragment wider than usual, and he was standing to attention in the rummiest way, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing and wanted to be absolutely certain that he understood correctly. I don't mind saying, his plain hopefulness shattered the Wooster heart, but I bravely went on:

"...And I truly hope you will consider the offer, that is, and that you know I should be heartbroken to let you go, although if you really want to leave my service I won't stand in your way—wouldn't be preux, what?"

"Sir" He said quietly "Sir, I never dared hope."

I was opening my mouth to reassure him and offer my more or less sincere congratulations, but he prevented me by crossing the space between us in three resolute steps and planting a smacker right on the young master's lips.

Quite the shock, what? Now, I know, the gentlemanly thing to do would have been to push him gently but firmly away, and immediately explain that I was terribly flattered but there had been one titanic misunderstanding in re. the identity of Jeeves's admirer, and if he thought the young master to harbour certain inclinations well, he was sorely mistaken; but I have to admit I didn't quite follow this sensible course of action, for I was distracted, as it were, by the kiss itself.

My affectionate readers are well acquainted with my man's superior skill in every conceivable field, and it shouldn't be a surprise to hear that he's a bally exceptional kisser. Trust me on this: he enfolds you in his strong arms, one hand holding the back of your neck in a thrilling masterly way so he can guide you right where he wants you; and I can't even begin to describe the utterly marvellous things he does with his tongue. What I mean to say is, I got caught in the moment and didn't push him away at all. When we parted for air I was quite dizzy and light-headed and didn't even remember my own name—I knew there were a lot of W's and possibly a B, but that was all.

While I slowly regained my senses, he held me and caressed my back, lavishing my face with tender little kisses, and told me quite extensively about his most secret feelings in re. yours truly; he quoted several poets and possibly an old Greek johnnie. The gist of it was that he had harboured tender feelings for the young master for years, and he was terribly in love with me, and he had never thought it possible that his feelings could be reciprocated—for, you see, he now believed Bertram to be in love with him as well.

Though this is not an entirely unusual posish for this Wooster, I couldn't think of anything to say. Dashed uncomfortable, what? I never believed Jeeves to be subject to this kind of misunderstanding, especially having witnessed many a girl fall prey to the Wooster charm this way, but there we were.

He had apparently misconstrued my dumbstruck silence for loving assent, for he resumed the dashed capable assault to my mouth and then moved to nuzzle my neck in a most interesting way. I mean to say, I had never imagined I would feel like this again, having finished school years before, but I could feel a distinct stirring in my lower portions, and by the way his hands tightened on me and slowly slid downwards he had realized my predicament. The old good sense kicked in at this point, and I wriggled free of his embrace and leapt on the bed, slamming the Wooster corpus under the sheets and firmly drawing said s. under my chin. Jeeves let out an embarrassed chuckle, a sound I had never heard from him. I looked at him and saw that the most surprising metamorphwhatsit had taken place: Jeeves was, my word, openly smiling, and a touch of red tinged his cheeks in a most endearing way.

"I'm sorry, Sir," he breathed, eyes shining; he didn't look sorry at all, I must add, but at least this was normal. "I have waited for years, but I suppose it's too soon for you, isn't it?"

"Er… way too soon, old thing." I managed to say.

"Don't worry, we will have time," he whispered lovingly, and then bent to give me a goodnight kiss, which made my toes curl on the mattress and sent shivers down my spine.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

As you might guess, gentle readers, I found it dashed difficult to get my nightly forty winks after that. Well, there were lots of rummy thoughts bumping and rattling in the Wooster melon: first and foremost, I had to come to terms with the utterly impossible, fantastical truth, i.e. Jeeves in love with yours truly.

It boggled my mind. Jeeves! Marvel of marvels, paragon of valets, in love with his mentally negligible employer—well, this was one for the books, except it could never be if he wished to avoid a stretch in prison. Come to think of it, I don't even know why I'm addressing you, Readers, as this narrative of mine is strictly for private perusal. Anyway, Bertram, even when first faced with the nasty shock of his valet's particular leanings, as it were, never dreamt of turning him to the rozzers. Why, I know a couple of chaps who are so inclined (one Cyril B-B comes to mind) and I had always endeavoured to ignore the matters. It didn't concern me, I mean to say, as I wasn't bent that way. I didn't see why I should go out of my way to make things difficult for the poor boys, and, having had my share of trouble with the Law, I sympathized with my fellow delinquents.

Well, to return to the matters at hand, I first had to wrap my mind around the fact that Jeeves, demigod though he his, was subject to human passions and whatnot. Then the fact that he had managed to hide an inverted nature behind layers of fireproof respectability and utter frogginess; and, if all of this was indeed true as it was, that he had cultivated a particular predilection for one Bertram Wooster, known fathead with a marked taste for garish clothing and silly comic songs. I couldn't explain this attachment (although the attachment itself could explain some previously mysterious facts, such as the continuing presence of Jeeves in my household) except recurring to the popular saying "opposites attract each other", which, in my opinion, didn't seem enough to justify such a sentiment. I mean to say, I never developed the slightest hint of tender feelings for Honoria Glossop, what?

Yet Jeeves had said that he loved me, and I know better than to question Jeeves's judgement, so I had to take his statement at face value. The question was, what was I to do now? I have found myself in a similar sitch. countless times, as I recalled before, but the circumstances are vastly different when there are a bird and a girl involved, instead of two b's. In the first instance, I know what to do: it's not gentlemanly to disappoint a lady, if said lady thinks B. Wooster enamoured of her, so I just stiffen the upper lip and ask Jeeves to fish me out of the soup in exchange for an offending item of clothing. But I don't think there's the smallest reference to gentlemen's personal gentlemen's feeling in all the Code of the Woosters, and I very well couldn't go to Jeeves for assistance as he was directly involved in the case instead of being, as usual, above the _partes_. Also, there was the small matter of Livvie, whose heart beat like an epileptic horse for my valet and I had, for all intents and purposes, stolen the chap she was sweet on. Not very friendly, that.

The final and weightiest matter that, well, weighted on the old lemon was this: I knew my Jeeves. That is to say I thought I knew him, for there was the small matter of unsuspected passions and cleverly hidden perversions, but in the end I knew that he was the same old Jeeves I loved and respected. That, as they say, was the crux of the matter: it had to have been a bally Herculean effort to overcome the feudal spirit and laying his heart at my feet.

The moment he would realize that his breach in the decorum hadn't been justified by a corresponding sentiment, and he fully understood the liberties he'd taken with the young master, he would certainly feel horrified, and humiliated, and possibly some other h's. The longer I waited before correcting this misapprehension, the more he would be ashamed when he learned the truth. Indeed, I feared for his fragile sensibilities, but what could I do? I hadn't the courage to tell him right in his face that I only loved him in a brotherly fashion, but if I didn't he would discover the truth by himself eventually, and be pipped beyond measure that I hadn't stopped him before he could make a fool of himself—even more, that is.

Well, my dear non-existent reader, I am sure you know how it happens when the mind is clouded by all sort of difficult thoughts to handle. One ends up thinking the rummiest things, I mean, and so it was that I fell into an uneasy sleep just when I was thinking about how bally corking it felt to have Jeeves's intimate attention bestowed over oneself, and how Olivia Smythe-Garland was, quite possibly, the shrewdest girl I knew.

What with all this deep thinking and tossing and turning between the linen sheets, you can imagine how groggy and out of sorts I felt when I woke up from my slumber. As such, I deeply welcomed the new sensation that was making itself felt right outside the Wooster melon, namely that of long, strong fingers gently trailing across the mussed locks and slowly pressing on the aching temples. Quite oojah-cum-spiff, and I wouldn't have minded more of that, only I remembered who I was and were I was, and I detected that those delicious fingers must belong to my currently lovestruck Jeeves; said impression was proved correct when coupled with the application of lips to my forehead. I unglued my eyes open.

Sure enough, there was Jeeves, and he was smiling again—not one of those disconcerting full smiles he had displayed the previous evening, but there was a distinct turn of the corner of the mouth which might have been visible to the untrained eye, by Jove!

"Good morning, sir." He said. Nothing untoward with that, I concede, but his voice was positively dripping with affection and whatnot. It warmed the cockles of the Wooster heart how genuinely happy and loving he sounded, with not the slightest bit of moulding in the offing, as if he was quite content with young Bertram as he was; and at the same time it made me feel like the guiltiest blighter of all Time, which in fact I was. I mean to say, I shouldn't have enjoyed the attention so much while I was actually looking for a way to break it to the chap that I didn't love him at all, terribly sorry, old thing. Fortunately, he didn't seem to think anything of my dumb wordlessness, knowing that without my morning tea and more solid sustenance I can't tell my right hand from my nose, and nodded affectionately.

"I shall draw your bath, sir." He announced, and he disappeared with a quiet puff. I sank in the mattress. Ironically, I realized how much better he was at this love thingummy than all of my former fiancées together. For a moment I wished he was a beasel, so I that I could just drop down on one knee and let him take care of me forever—as he already did, only with the addiction of this thingness to his mien which made Bertram's insides feel all fuzzy and tingly. If only, I sighed. This soup was getting stickier by the minute.

During the day I endeavoured to avoid both Jeeves and the Smythe-Garland pill, which for the most part meant plastering myself at my Aunt Dahlia's side and, at one point, ducking under a baccarat table to escape Livvie's piercing, questioning gaze. My safety was only temporary, though, and in normal circumstances would have been even more fleeting, for my esteemed Aunt would soon become tired of having a stalwart nephew following her anywhere like a lost puppy. However, she happened to win a large sum at the tables that very day and got into her head that her luck depended on having me around; I was then able to put off the catastrophic confrontation until right before dinner, when an enraged beasel barged into my room just as I was sliding in the old fish and soup.

Quite a timely interruption, I must say: for Jeeves, with the excuse of helping me into the evening crust, was subjecting the old corpus to the most delicious loving siege, showering me with caresses and kisses and what-have-you. He was enjoying himself so much, I hadn't had the heart to stop him, and I was not a little distressed by the sitch. (And, if I must be honest, a bit stirred as well).

As soon as the door opened I felt a huff of cool air against the limbs. Suddenly, Jeeves was standing at the proper valeting distance from the young master, exhibiting his most respectable stuffed valet face. To this day, I don't know how he pulled it off but he was so dashed quick that Livvie didn't see a thing, and immediately addressed me, thankfully ignorant of any untoward occurrences that might have been going on.

"Bertie!"

"Ah, what ho, Livvie! I say, not to be overly critical, old thing, but it's not quite the done thing to pop into a fellow's bedchamber when he's getting dressed, what?" To be fair, I was decent enough, missing only my jacket and tie and with the two top buttons of my shirt undone, but standards must be upheld. She looked ready to argue the point but a glance to Jeeves's disapproving eyebrow was enough to appease her fighting spirit.

"I'm sorry, Bertie, but I must know—did you talk to Jeeves about that matter?"

Here Jeeves paled considerably. I was keeping a worried eye on him, you see, and I clearly detected that his top-notch intelligence had hit the mark in no time; although he didn't move a muscle nor uttered a cry I could see he was considerably distressed. He coughed softly.

"Madam, may I inquire what did you wish to tell me?"

"Bertie, you chump! I knew couldn't trust you!" She shrieked at me. To Jeeves she smiled and batted her eyelashes in the most disgustingly forward way.

"Oh, well, it's just a little thing I'd asked Bertie to tell you from me… Perhaps he will be kind enough to tell you now, as soon as I go back to my room." She shot a sweet, menacing glare in my direction that clearly said or else, and then she added "Well, I will see you at dinner, you fathead. Toodle pip, Jeeves!" And then she was gone.

No-one spoke for a while. Well, I say! Her meaning had been as clear as Sherlock Holmes's magnifying lens, and the great brain had understood the whole sitch. at once. The horrified look in his eyes spoke plainly to me, and I felt dashed sorry for the chap. I fidgeted a bit, wishing for a gasper but not feeling brave enough to reach for one; finally, he broke the silence.

"Sir, I have no words to express my regret. My behaviour was unforgivable. If there's anything at all I can do to apologize…."

"Oh, not at all, old thing! I mean to say, ah, it's no use fretting over a small mistake, what?"

"A small… sir, my actions were appalling! I wouldn't blame you if you fired me or… or turned me to the police, sir."

"Tosh, Jeeves! What utter rot! I would never do that to you, and you've done no harm, right? You know it's not the first time that this Wooster's innocent favour to a friend is misunderstood for a tender proposal—I don't seem to be too good at it, come to think of it. Perhaps I might cease the practice altogether, let the awkward lovers speak for themselves, as it were, since I only seem to thicken the soup considerably."

This seemed to cheer him a bit, poor fellow, for the corner of his mouth jumped a fraction higher.

"A wise choice, sir, but the circumstances you speak of are quite different from the present."

"I don't see how, my dear man. True, you surprised me not a little, and I'm dashed sorry that I didn't correct your mistake at once—I don't think it would have been against the Code and perhaps it would have been easier on you, but what I mean to say is… I don't want you to leave my service. If you want, we can put this small incident into the back-drawer of our minds and never speak of it again, what do you say? For I would like very much to return to the old and cozy _status quo._ "

"Sir, this is a very generous offer. However, I fear my presence will disturb you, now that you know of my… feelings and inclinations."

"Well, it's a bit rummy, I admit, but I venture to say it's none of my business and I promise I won't tell anyone."

I could see that he was slowly accepting my point, and I pressed on—with no little amount of satisfaction, for it's not every day that I have the upper hand in a disagreement with my stalwart manservant, regardless of the circumstances.

"I'll tell you what, Jeeves, why don't you give you final whatsit to the old fish and soup and then take a night off? I dare say I will find my way around the old nightwear on my own; you can unwind a bit and sort things out in this massive brain of yours; and tomorrow we shall be back to normal, what?"

"Thank you, sir; I am most grateful for your kind understanding and forgiveness."

"Don't mention it, my good man."

He leaned closer and in two ticks, he had my outward appearance up to the required standards, this time with none of the playful affection he had displayed on me before. He gave me a last look to be certain that everything was in order, thanked me again and left the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Well, there you are. I was quite chuffed to have sorted the sitch. with no casualties, as it were, but as the days went by, I could see that things hadn't exactly returned up to snuff. I mean to say, Jeeves's service was impeccable as ever, not a wrinkle to be seen on the young master's clothing and perfectly mixed b. and s.'s finding their way to my hand just when I needed them, but there was a sort of tension between us. What with Jeeves's unusually sedate manners and my determination to avoid talking about anything remotely related to tender feelings and such—no need to rub that in a fellow's face, what? It all put quite the damper to our conversation, which was very sad.

To see my Jeeves, a man who in usual conditions doesn't hesitate to make his opinion on every possible subject known to all and sundry, and who in fact relishes any excuse to waggle his jaw at leisure, so quiet and withdrawn, pained my heart not a little. I found it deuced difficult to go by without our friendly chatter, which I had always found delish. It was a bit like quarrelling with a bosom chum, only we hadn't quarrelled and I couldn't just swallow my pride and offer the Wooster hand in reconciliation. Beside babbling away about everything that crossed my all-too-empty noggin, trying to coax a response out of him, and act like I had forgotten the whole sorry occurrence, I was at loss for what to do.

I must say, despite my known tendency to forget about sensitive issues and making the deuce of a _faux pas_ spurting them out at the least convenient moment, I held myself in check quite well, if I may say so. I only slipped once; that is to say, not at all, because it was on purpose: although I had promised to keep mum on the subj., in fact, I felt I had the right to know what had become of the whole Olivia/Jeeves thingummy.

"I say, Jeeves," I said to him one night "I say, what of Livvie?"

"What of her, sir?"

"I mean, last I heard she looked upon you with a tender e. and a keen predilection for matrimonial alliances of the inter-class variety. What happened of it, if I may ask?" Here he stiffened a bit, but answered blithely as if I had asked him what he thought of the last cricket match.

"I informed Miss Smythe-Garland that, although her interest flattered me immensely, my heart is already taken."

"Good show, by Jove! I wish I could have thought of this wheeze every time a girl took in her head to marry me!" I wasn't thinking, of course, but I didn't miss the blankness that came upon his face, nor the soupy tone he employed in his response.

"As you say, sir. Will you need anything else?" and he shimmered off without even waiting for an answer—an unheard-of breach of protocol, which goes to show how distressed he'd been by my callous attitude. For, you know, as I gaped to the Jeeves shaped emptiness next to my bed it occurred to me that his answer hadn't been a wheeze at all: his heart was, in fact, taken by this unworthy Wooster. I felt the worst sort of cad to have dismissed his affections in this manner, and I resolved never to breathe a word about it again, and that I was to double my efforts to treat him like the peerless wonder he was.

Eventually, the vacation ended and we returned to the old metrop., if a little worse for wear. To my satisfaction, once Jeeves wrapped his massive brain around the fact that his just sleep would not be interrupted by a stampede of policemen, and that the young master was truly willing to let the matter drop, the good man started to relax a bit. That is to say, if I started to quote any stray poet that came to mind, he would gleefully rearrange the sentence in its native form, give it a brush with the old feather-duster and respectfully lecture me on the author's life, habits, general appearance and favourite beverage. In other words, all was well _chez_ Wooster, except it was not.

I couldn't quite put my finger on it, at first. I mean, all seemed to be going on rather steadily, what? Yet sometimes I would toddle over to Jeeves in need of reassurance about some small matter of aunts or friends, and he would answer with a polite, impersonal word or with an imaginative, but equally impersonal, scheme (depending from the current state of my wardrobe, I believe). All rather acceptable if you're a valet; I just couldn't help but remember the way he'd looked with the love light in his eyes, and thinking that, in some occasions, said l.l. is called forth. I mean, surely a bit of the fond glance and a gentle, reassuring hand on the shoulder couldn't hurt a soul, I thought. That is to say, I rather missed it.

Of course Jeeves, being Jeeves, would never stand for it, and I had better not disturb his feudal spirit by suggesting inappropriate shoulder-patting or anything of the sort, which felt dashed unfair: it felt as if, after having sampled Anatole's mouth-watering meals, I was told in no uncertain terms never to darken the grounds of Brinkley Court again. I mean to say, I distinctly remember that there was a time when I hadn't met God's gift to gastronomy, and I am sure that I used to consider my usual fare more than perfectly adequate. Yet today I would weep bitter tears if I was denied access to his ambrosial meals, and the sole mention of his name is enough to make me answer the call of the aunt in distress, with no thoughts for my own safety.

Much in the same way, I found that I couldn't stand the polite, natural distance between me and my man anymore that I could have sworn off Anatole's meals for the time being. Knowing the veritable depths of affection that lurked beneath my man's calm demeanour, I found it intolerable that we should maintain that dashed formal distance between us. In short, even though the lark was on the nail and the _status_ was very much _quo_ , I didn't really care for the continuing state of affairs. A little less of the starched politeness and more of the good old embrace was what I wanted. I'm not terribly sure when the realization hit me—possibly somewhere between sulking over a morose b. and s. at the Drones and sneaking a peek of Jeeves ironing in shirtsleeves, but I assure you: this Wooster might be slow on the uptake as you please, but he isn't a complete idiot. Eventually, I had to realize that I was hopelessly in love with Jeeves.

'But, Wooster,' I imagine someone saying when they got to this twist in the plot, 'How did you reach such a momentous conclusion? You've made quite the big production of rejecting Jeeves's love; true, why anybody would reject such a paragon is beyond my comprehension, but there's no getting around it: you did it, B. W. Why, then, the heel-face turn?' They would ask.

Well, it wasn't easy, I'll give you that. The Woosters are not known for being thinkers—we are, in fact, men of action. Give a Wooster a sword on the battlefield, and he'll charge the enemy with nary a thought for his safety. In those less bloodthirsty times, give me a tennis raquet or a golf club, and I'll defend the family honour with the best of them. When it comes to intellectual challenges, however, I'm stumped. While I think it's unfair that some people, i.e. my Aunt Agatha, refer to me as 'Useless Blot' and 'Blithering Idiot', I admit that it took me a deuced long time to work out that little tidbit of information—namely, that I was in love with Jeeves too.


End file.
